


Not One to Forget

by blackfirewolf



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill being a jerk, Blood, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, angst fest, fiddauthor - Freeform, in which I torture poor Fidds even though he deserves nothing but happiness, just way more gay, mostly canon compliant, this is my first time using ao3 pls forgive me, this started as a goddamn character study wtf happened, unaware demonic possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfirewolf/pseuds/blackfirewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fiddleford Hadron McGucket wasn't one to forget things. It wasn’t to say he didn’t forget things, or that he didn’t have a few memories he’d rather not remember, but he’d always been good at seeing the truth of things."</p><p>Or, a whole fiddauthor story devoted to Fiddleford, his relationship with Ford, and how everything went to shit around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not One to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t believe that my first Gravity Falls fanfic is a 9k fiddauthor angstfest that was originally just a short Fiddleford character study. What a hell of a way to come off a 5-month writer’s block lmao. 
> 
> Inspired by [ tallykale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tallykale/pseuds/tallykale)'s amazing fiddauthor fics; I highly suggest reading them, they're amazing!! Also shout-out to my friend Jay (who also provides the brilliant [coverart ](http://blackfirewolf.tumblr.com/post/142430167074/here-you-go-my-buddy-my-friend-jay-im-gonna-cry#notes)!!!) for listening to me wail about my own writing and who implored me to give this a happy ending and tone down my angst for just ONCE in my goddamn life (I failed, btw).
> 
> Also available on my [ tumblr ](http://blackfirewolf.tumblr.com/post/140669948909/not-one-to-forget). 
> 
> ...anyways, welcome to run-on sentence hell... hope you enjoy!

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket wasn't one to forget things.

It wasn’t to say he didn’t forget things, or that he didn’t have a few memories he’d rather not remember, but he’d always been good at seeing the truth of things. Like how when he introduced himself with his full name, soothed by the Southern accent he’d inherited from his Ma, people tended to either snicker or look doubtful that he was in college in the first place. Or when he first walked into his dorm to the sight of his future roommate dropping a stack of too-many boxes filled with too-many papers all across the floor, and the man had stammered out a quick apology at the same time he introduced himself as Stanford Pines and practically threw himself at Fiddleford, offering him a handshake before remembering his insecurities and wincing as Fiddleford grasped the six-fingered hand. In the space of that time, Fiddleford saw a lot; this was a man that had been ridiculed just as much as him (for a birth-defect rather than just a silly accent and a big brain, Fiddleford thought), someone unused to social interactions, someone that with a wince said silently, “ _Let’s get this over with_ …”

So Fiddleford didn’t ask about the unusual hand (and really, it didn’t bug him, it was a bit fascinating actually, and he’d like to inspect it more closely, but that was weird, wasn’t it?), or the way Stanford’s glasses were crooked, or the fact that their dorm was coated in a layer of miscellaneous papers. He introduced himself as he usually did, and winced slightly at Stanford’s raised eyebrow at his unusual name and accent, and tried to forget his own insecurities in his roommate’s broad ( _and warm and comforting and why was he thinking this?_ ) hand.

Sometimes, Fiddleford would think about how he’d grown up in a household packed to the brim with kids. He had so many brothers and sisters that sometimes it almost seemed like he’d lost track, that they just sprouted out of the backyard and joined the ranks of their household, which wasn’t helped when his older siblings got husbands and wives and started having their own kids. Sometimes, when he was younger, he’d forget who was a sibling or a cousin or even a nephew (don’t let it be said that the McGuckit family wasn’t huge). Names were easy to blur, too, when you had a group of people with similar-sounding names for the sake of some odd family humour he’d never understood, until at some point he gave up trying to tell _Mason_ from _Macy_ or _Julie_ from _June_ and simply focused on not getting caught during games of tag. Maybe that was why he wasn’t bothered sharing the small dorm with Stanford, because he’d grown up in a household held together by chaos and yelled names that stuttered in their syllables to make sure you were shouting the right name for the right situation (heck, Ma had accidently called him by the dog’s name once, and he couldn’t really blame her). 

 _And speaking of names_ , Stanford slurred one night after drinking five cheap beers in the span of two hours in a much-deserved break after finals, _what kind of parents hated their kids enough to name a pair of twins Stan-FORD and Stan-LEY? Were they REALLY that unprepared? Or did they just hate them?_ And Fiddleford’s previous recounting of how people always rose an eyebrow at his name (and how that’d hurt when he was younger) and how he’d long since gotten used to it by now and how he actually didn’t mind his name, thank you very much, suddenly seemed indifferent to the looming family secrets spilling from his light-weight roommate (because Fiddleford had been friends with Stanford for almost a year now and he’d never heard mention of any freakin’ sibling, let alone a TWIN).

In the morning, when he gently approached the subject of similar-sounding-names, Stanford’s face had washed of all emotion, in a way that had legitimately scared Fiddleford because it was like his friend had completely shut down, except he could see the brindled bitterness and regret and _hurt_ in Ford’s vacant eyes. Then Stanford seemed to come back to life – like a zombie came back to life, that is – and had said in a monotone that he remembered no such thing, and then he apologized for anything he’d said in the night and the fact that he had vomited out their dorm window for a straight five minutes come morning ( _but he didn’t apologize for the tears that had swam in his eyes the night before, the way his six knuckles had flexed white on each hand, and how he’d passed out on Fiddleford’s bed and had gripped his roommate’s hand all night as Fiddleford listened to him snore quietly and thought about names and family and hands too warm and comforting for their own good_ ).

And in a week’s time, Stanford would suddenly burst out that he was sorry that he’d risen an eyebrow at Fiddleford’s name upon their first meeting when the gentle Southern man hadn’t said a word about the extra finger squeezing his hand at the time, and Fiddleford knew that Stanford _remembered_. Remembered Fiddleford spilling about names and insecurities as Ford spilled about family members never mentioned again.

He wondered, however, if Stanford remembered gripping Fiddleford’s hand, and the way he’d gently traced the six stress-strained knuckles and ink-stained palms, or if that was another thing his roommate wanted to forget, just like long-gone secret twins.

Stanford and him were like run-on sentences, Fiddleford thought. Like the long nights spent in the library, even after it had closed, jolting down scratchy notes with drooping eyes like Fiddleford’s ol’ hound dog and the bitter taste of coffee (he didn’t even like coffee, really) burning the back of his throat as Ford read off the same equation for his friend to correct, so exhausted that he’d forgotten that he’d already asked Fiddleford the same thing ten minutes before. Like how Fiddleford would smile and drape a blanket over his roommate when his friend passed out hunched over his desk overflowing with notes (and he’d never mention in the morning that sometimes names passed Ford’s sleeping, vulnerable lips, and Fiddleford didn’t know if he was more concerned with the whispered whimpers of _Stanley_ or _Fidds_ ). Or, how Fiddleford would wake up on the floor of the dorm with Ford’s pillow slid under his head after he’d gotten a late-night inspiration for some mechanical invention and had fallen asleep assembling wires and holding gears together. They were both loose ends, geniuses with insecurities and excitement in their work – windows covered by blinds during the day but thrown open at night so the starlight and moonlight and spacelight could seep in like some half-forgotten dream. They’d ramble for hours, about science and nothing and more important things, and _run-on_ , Fiddleford thought. They were always running on and on.

Then he met a girl, and she had the same colour eyes that Ford had – not identical, no, but similar enough that he fooled himself into thinking that maybe he could lose himself in her like he’d lost himself in the tendons of six-fingered hands and pale, energy-drained cheeks. And maybe for a few months they pretended to love each other – or maybe he genuinely did, for a time – but then they went their separate ways until months later she called with the news that made him take out his banjo, disappear into the garage of his tiny house just-out-of-college, and cry with tears that were neither happy nor sad, because he had a _son_.

And maybe, Fiddleford thought, it was a bit odd that it was easier answering Stanford’s call to come to some distant Oregon back-woods town called Gravity Falls to help an old college buddy with some life-altering portal than to return to the woman he think he might have loved briefly (but she hadn’t been a run-on sentence like him and someone else; she’d been a compound sentence, the joining of two ideas ended with a period and marked with proper grammar) and the little boy she held (who for now was nothing but exclamation points and stars that Fiddleford instantly loved).  

And maybe it was a bit odd that sleeping in Stanford’s (rather impressive) shack felt like coming home, in a ways. Listening to the quiet snores down the hall, seeing the stacks of papers and the coffee-stained tables, and listening to his old friend talk about everything and nothing at once – it filled something in him that had been missing in the short time he’d spent out of college, tinkering with his computers and plucking his banjo in the garage.

 It was in the way Stanford’s eyes lit up at the news of Fiddleford’s son, and how he awkwardly but warmly greeted Tate and made time to make the boy pancakes when he was visiting his father for the summer. By the end of the month, Tate was calling him “Uncle ‘Ord!” and Fiddleford couldn’t help but beam with happiness and pride at the dorky grin Ford always got when the little boy called him that. It also couldn’t be helped that on the afternoon Tate was to return to his mom, Fiddleford grabbed Ford’s hand and gripped like his world was flying apart when, really, only a small piece of it was returning home until the next holiday when Fiddleford would be invited to visit.

Fiddleford had always been good at seeing the truth of things, but he couldn’t read Stanford’s expression as those eyes slowly drifted down to stare at their conjoined hands. But he didn’t pull away.

And Stanford didn’t pull away the next time, when sleepy and disorientated, Fiddleford grasped his hand to pull himself up from the table and lingered just a moment too long. Or when he was blinking the doziness out of his eyes and staring a bit too long at the way Ford’s eyebrows would scrunch together adorably when chewing on his pen, and his friend suddenly darted his head up and caught him staring. And if Stanford began to look a bit more questioning at the way Fiddleford blushed each time they accidently made contact, either in the lab or just the kitchen (and jeez, the man had gone their entire college period completely oblivious to Fiddleford’s mounting, shimmering, urgh, _feelings_ , so why was he paying attention NOW?), he hid his true emotions well.

It was like entering a dream, when one day, a few weeks after Tate’s departure, Ford slipped his arm around Fiddleford’s shoulders first and lingered there past the time allowed for platonic friendship, and Fiddleford almost broke into tears, because there was the anxious jittering in Stanford that he’d become oh so familiar with over the years. The hopeless genius stammered and offered him coffee when he finally broke contact, and then finally turned on his “logic voice” to help him to ask Fiddleford to sit down so they could… discuss some things.

Fiddleford wasn’t one to forget things. He still remembered the mixed amusement-hope-nervousness-annoyance when he first met Stanford, the way the open window and empty walls had made the dorm look bigger than it actually was, the way his voice had uplifted slightly at the end of his introduction, and the box containing “Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons” that had been the icebreaker of their slightly-bad first impressions. He remembered the night Stanford got drunk off his ass and the rough-harsh-shameful-angry ( _angry at who, though?_ ) tone of his voice at the ghost-name _Stanley_. He remembered the perfect feeling of Stanford’s hand, the slight clamminess blending into the paper-rubbed skin, how he’d stroked and traced those extra fingers and knuckles and nails without a hint of the disgust Stanford was used to, and how years later those hands would be the almost the same – maybe just a bit more scarred, a bit less clammy. He remembered now, the way Stanford had shook at first when Fiddleford had grasped that hand (a bit drunk himself, really), and that the man hadn’t started gently snoring for at least ten minutes as his roommate-friend-partner- _more_ drew constellations between his callouses. He remembered the first glimpse he got of Tate, the wisp of hair, the smell of pine and disinfectant in his nostrils, the moment his heart leaped into his throat and reminded him what true love was like. He remembered the curve of Stanford’s arm throwing Tate a small ball, the clumsy way the young boy had finally caught it, the tilt of his voice combining a Southern accent and an almost-disappeared New Jersey accent as he cheered, and the brief thought of _our son_ when Tate’s mother was all the way back home in California.

He knew he’d remember this moment above all else, though. The moment that would make or break him. And Stanford was stumbling over his words, trying to convey his emotion through his “regular voice,” but unable to fully get his words out without resorting to the “logic voice” to guide him through this obviously-important conversation. All Fiddleford could focus on was the dust motes floating and reflecting the colour of Stanford’s earnest, desperate, awkward eyes, and the smell of pine mingling with coffee and the eggs he’d made earlier, and the frantic waving as Stanford gestured helplessly with those hands of his, bandaged and scarred after full nights spent building a portal and writing pages upon pages of equations and notes. _And their sentences were running on_ , Fiddleford thought.

It was funny that he’d remember the slight gleam of Ford’s tongue darting out to lick his lips, but he wouldn’t remember who it was that was the first to blurt out, “You know, I-I like you. As more than friends, I m-mean…”

But, it didn’t matter in the end, because one of them cut off the other’s stumbling admission by stuttering out, “I f-feel the same way!” in reply.

And they grinned at each other, all hesitance and longing, until they smashed their foreheads together and had to pull away laughing as they adjusted enough to cup each other’s faces and peer into the other’s eyes without anything holding them back. Fiddleford (and probably Stanford, too) would have been fine just to lean foreheads together and see the spark of happiness and _more_ mirroring each other’s eyes, but both of them decided to kiss anyways.

Gentleness, a promise of something that had been growing between them like the pathetic plant Stanford had tried to grow in their second year, until Fiddleford had took pity on them both and secretly watered it when Ford forgot (which was often), and it had been the best thing ever to see the way Stanford beamed and proudly showed Fiddleford the tiny flowers that had managed to bloom, but _most importantly_ , that little plant was still alive and surviving on the windowsill of their shared kitchen. The kiss was like the crunch of pine needles under their feet on research missions; like the little cinnamon candy-hearts that Tate had pulled from the pocket of his overalls and dumped into his father’s hand on Valentine’s Day; it was teeth freshly brushed yet tainted with the first coffee of the morning; it was a run-on sentence that lasted long enough that Fiddleford had to gulp for breath when they finally drew away, and he couldn’t help but copy Stanford’s breathless laughter as they grasped each other like they’d never let go.

That night Fiddleford climbed into the same bed as Stanford – after assuring the slightly-panicked man that he didn’t want anything but to be close to him for the night, because he wasn’t ready for their relationship to go THAT far ( _at least not yet_ ). Stanford latched onto him after that assurance, and Fiddleford couldn’t think of a happier moment for him than cuddled into his friend’s shoulder, clutching that six-fingered hand beneath the woolen covers of the blanket Ma had given Stanford for Christmas three years back, and listening to the hushed ins and outs of their synced breaths.

It was sweet and wonderful how quickly they fell into routine. How nothing seemed to change between them, yet _everything_ did as well. Anyone who said domestic bliss was dull had obviously never spent it with their soulmate, because waking up next to Stanford made Fiddleford feel like he’d waltzed into a dream and he was content to never leave, even when his mind buzzed with science and not-yet-invented-inventions. The eggs Fiddleford would fry seemed to sizzle more merrily when Stanford wrapped a casual arm around his waist and kissed his neck to silently say good-morning, and the coffee on his lips was as sweet as sugar (even though he knew Ford drank it black). Fiddleford had never been so in tune to how well they moved together, weaving back and forth as they worked, passing the other a tool before their mouth had even opened to ask. They didn’t need to speak to communicate, and when they collapsed into bed together after a long day, Fiddleford could imagine that they were an old couple that had been doing this for decades and would continue to do it for decades.

It was a comforting thought.

Maybe that was why he knew something was wrong long before the portal was even close to being done. It was the increase in Stanford’s sleeping habits, when before Fiddleford would – most nights – have to drag him physically out of the basement to come to bed. Or maybe he first noticed the leaps in Ford’s equations, the brilliance that sprung out far too quickly to be naturally given. But he mostly began to notice the increase of triangles and the colour yellow (it clashed with their little green plant with its blue flowers on their kitchen windowsill, but Fiddleford decided that that would be a silly thing to say).

He didn’t want to say anything to Stanford; after all, if this “Muse” of his was helping them with the portal, the life-accomplishment of his partner, and made Stanford jerk awake smiling and rambling about the newest theory of the universe he’d discovered, than it couldn’t be that bad, could it? It didn’t matter if the artifacts Stanford left around the shack seemed to have hidden eyes that carefully traced his steps, or that Ford slowly spent more and more time meditating in a creepy diagram flickering with candles than with his partner. In the beginning, that didn’t matter.

Then it got progressively worse. It was the flash of yellow (like liquid topaz) corrupting Stanford’s beautifully gentle brown eyes, dilating with slits like a hungry cat. It was waking up with a cold, empty space next to him in their bed and hearing the eerie sound of someone whispering animatedly to themselves down the hall, the floorboards creaking slightly as a person ghosted along their surface with no true purpose. The worst, though, was the increasing number of bandages wrapped around Stanford’s wrists, the purple-blue mish-mash of bruises mapped under his ribcage, the slip-ups of blood vibrantly staining the undersides of old Band-Aids Fiddleford tried not to see adding up in the bathroom garbage can.  

Maybe he could have looked past all that ( _for love, and ignorance is bliss, and all that_ ) except that he could feel it affecting him too. He winced whenever Stanford accidently pulled on one of his freshest wounds. He flinched whenever he caught the tell-tale flash of eyes. Soon enough, he was waking up at 3 o’clock in the morning as Stanford rose from the bed like someone in a horror movie, drifting across the room, stubbing his toe on the side of the door (almost purposely), and spending the night pacing slowly as Fiddleford stared at the ceiling, too wound-up to sleep, and wishing he wasn’t the only one keeping the bed warm.

And just when Fiddleford decided to confront Stanford – to sit him down at the kitchen table and grip his hand and start with, “ _Darlin’ we need to discuss something that’s been buggin’ me awhile…_ ” and fully prepared to point out the tick in his partner’s face, the fresh gauze wrapped around his forearm already dyed maroon, and even ready to be unfair and selfish by dragging out his own anxiety and discomfort with the situation – it all went terribly wrong.

Dreams woke him – dreams filled with cut skin that bled darkness instead of blood; dreams with thousands of eyes swirling around and around yet never focusing; dreams with deer running backwards in slow-motion, their teeth dribbling out of their mouths like drool; dreams of a six-fingered hand being held down and a copper blade sawing, sawing, through muscle and bone until only a regular five-fingered hand remained, twitching laxly in a puddle of yellow acid. No, those weren’t dreams, they were nightmares, weren’t they? Just like the man leaning casually over him, grinning far too wide, eyes colourless in the dark but lively enough that Fiddleford could still see the slits, wasn’t Stanford but something else.

It was like the past few weeks of building tension had exploded in Fiddleford’s chest, and he scrambled backwards with a yelp like a kicked dog, tangling in the blankets, desperate to get away from him (but… it was _Stanford_ ), the anxiety and sudden instinctive fear knocking the breath out of his throat as he crashed to the hardwood floor.  His hands were shaking, Fiddleford noted, and his tailbone hurt from falling off the bed. _And his nerves were on fire, running on and on over his body, telling him to GET AWAY GET AWAY RUN_.

Stanford chuckled merrily from where he was still sprawled on the bed, propped up by one arm, and it was his voice but it wasn’t at the same time. It was like the shapeshifter, Fiddleford thought in terror, because no matter how good it was at imitating, it could never be perfect. “Aw, Fidds, what’s the matter?” The voice was Stanford’s, but the tone was too mocking, the question too much of a coo. It wasn’t right.

“S-Stanford, Darlin’ I-I,” and Fiddleford couldn’t continue because he was still unconsciously scooting across the floor, away from the bed and his partner, until his back hit the wall and stopped his retreat. Stanford grinned at him.

“Come on, don’t be so shy, Fidds!” In a move too quick and fluid and un-Stanford like, the man was suddenly sliding off the bed and striding around the bed to where Fiddleford was. “Or, you know, I’ll just come to YOU!”

Fiddleford tried very hard not to mewl in fright when the man bent down and grabbed him by the collar of his sleep-shirt, his grip a bit rougher than Stanford had ever been with him, and still grinning like watching Fiddleford shrink from him was the most hilarious thing he’d ever seen. Up close, Fiddleford could clearly see the cat-slit eyes eating up his soul, the slight glow the yellow-tainted irises gave off, the way that smile was twisted so it was like he was baring his teeth, the way Stanford’s muscles were loose across his bare, bruised chest, relaxed in a way Stanford had never been.

 (Stanford was all nervous energy, tapping feet and tension-flexed knuckles, words falling like a waterfall as he gave quick adjustments to his glasses as they edged down his nose and tickled his sideburns; he was a run-on sentence that never stopped and never relaxed and would never intentionally cause panic and fear in Fiddleford, because underneath his obliviousness he _cared_. But this Stanford was limp like a rag-doll and pressing a smothering kiss to Fiddleford’s lips even as he leaned as far back into the wall as he could get, and he was more than a run-on sentence, he was a goddamn keyboard smash after you’d passed out in the middle of a college essay at 4 o’clock in the morning, and it was _wrong_ ).

Fiddleford had closed his eyes at some point – maybe out of fear, maybe out of hope that when he eventually had to open them again it’d be HIS Stanford pressing him against their bedroom wall (and really, he wouldn’t mind that, not if he knew it was the gentle, passionate partner he was accustomed to, compared to whatever _this_ was). Stanford’s heavy breathing blew against Fiddleford’s cheek, and he wanted to cry because those lips had tasted the same as they always did, like black coffee and cinnamon and promises of forever that could never be fulfilled. It should have been different, like everything else, but it wasn’t, and it was _right_ in a sea of WRONG WRONG WRONG.

“What’s the matter, Fidds, suddenly don’t like me?” And there it was again; Stanford would never say something like that. Or if he did, it’d be filled with hurt and anxious fear that he’d messed up their relationship, not biting with sadistic glee. The way he’d said that old nickname, _Fidds_ , wasn’t filled with wonder and endearment like it usually was (although he couldn’t exactly identify the tone being used on it now) but Fiddleford decided right then and there that he never wanted this version of Stanford to call him that again.

“D-Darlin’ we should be getting to bed, it’s late,” Fiddleford managed to breathe out. Stanford didn’t loosen his grip though, or pull his face away from his, for that matter. Conceding defeat, Fiddleford let his eyes open to stare directly into those manic eyes, swallowing the bile rioting in the base of his throat as Stanford chuckled and pressed himself into the other man with just enough force to start to hurt.

“Alright, Fidds ol’ boy, guess ya right! Just trying to have a little fun, is all!” Fiddleford gulped back his whimper as Stanford pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, his lips forceful and grating like stone over his skin. Suddenly he pulled back, and Fiddleford’s head spun with relief, until Stanford’s hand shot out and grabbed his jaw ( _too hard, too hard, Stanford would NEVER apply that much pressure_ ) and yanked his head up to peer directly into each other’s eyes, so close together that Fiddleford could see the grey tone Stanford’s skin had gained and the slight chip on his front tooth from when he’d tripped two weeks ago and banged his skull on a metal beam. “Let me tell you something, real quick, Fidds.”

Fiddleford wanted to squeeze his eyes closed again, but Stanford’s eyes were less amused and more serious now – although no less crazy – and his jaw was being gently pinched in warning to pay close attention to what the other man had to say. “We’re close to finishing that portal, and we don’t need you getting any doubts now, do we?”

 _No_ , Fiddleford mouthed in agreement. And he didn’t have any doubts ( _did he?_ ).

“So we’re gonna work our hardest and support ol’ Sixer here in everything he does, aren’t you? Otherwise you’ll lose him, won’t you, and you don’t want that, do you?” Not-Stanford cackled lightly, the amusement flaring back up in his eyes as he crowed, “He really does love you, ya know! The things you meat-sacks wouldn’t do for each other! It’s hilarious!”

Fiddleford felt too overwhelmed to properly respond or think about that comment, because Not-Stanford had shot an arrow directly into the heart of Fiddleford’s fears. The buried murmurs that if Fiddleford pulled back or pushed too hard Stanford would cast him aside, because wasn’t there someone else he’d turned away from when they’d held him back from his goals? And wasn’t that someone flesh-and-blood, a whole seventeen year of companionship, all tossed aside for a dream school? And what was Fiddleford’s measly ten years of friendship (and maybe a bit more) worth when the biggest accomplishment of Stanford’s life was just within arm’s reach? And it was terrible to think such things about his partner, but Fiddleford couldn’t crush the anxiety welling in his chest at the thought of Stanford not wanting him, not _needing_ him. So no matter how much he was trembling right now, Fiddleford knew he wouldn’t be able to question Stanford in the morning because he was a _coward_ , and he couldn’t jeopardize what he had over some silly fears and discomfort ( _and maybe a few nagging doubts, which he only now realized had been buried in the depths of his mind_ ).

Stanford shook him roughly, making Fiddleford’s jaw ache and his skull rattle, and said, “Whoa, no zoning out on me there, Fidds!” The unnerving grin was hovering on the corners of the man’s lips. “Tell me, what are you gonna do?”

Fiddleford drew in a stuttering breath, not realizing until that moment that his chest was heaving up and down, his lungs burning like he hadn’t been breathing the entire time, and he tried to speak, failed, and restarted. “G-gonna h-help Stanford. N-no matter… what.”

Fiddleford had never realized that his accent seemed less potent when his voice was shaking with fear and defeat.

“That a boy, Fidds! I’m just looking out for both you and ol’ Sixer here; he needs his love-sick little puppy to help him complete his project, and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate if said puppy was whining and nippin’ his ankles, hmm? Besides, he’d be devastated if he knew you were doubting him and his work, wouldn’t he?”

Fiddleford had squeezed his eyes closed again.

“He would be! He’d be heartbroken that the person he _loved_ didn’t believe he could do this! And I’m thinking about you too, Fidds. You’re about to help the man of your dreams complete a ground-breaking machine that will change the whole world! Think about all this when it’s over; fame, wealth, nothing but comfortable domestic bliss! You can’t jeopardise that, Fidds, over a few minor doubts, can you?”

Fiddleford nodded weakly. _True, true, true_ , beat his heart, constricting in time with his strangled lungs. _All true_.

Stanford pulled back finally, and it was like the ocean had rushed out all at once, leaving Fiddleford soaking wet on a stretch of damp beach, seaweed tangled in his arms and his feet anchored in barnacles and wave-roughed rocks. He pried his eyes open again, maybe hoping that everything that had just happened was just a dream, but Stanford was still blocking any escape, his slit eyes regarding him in amusement and satisfaction. The man rose one of his hands and Fiddleford flinched like he was going to be hit, but Stanford just laughed and brushed Fiddleford’s cheek, running the knuckles over his unresponsive lips. With horror, Fiddleford realized that one of Stanford’s most recent bandages had come loose, trailing off his hand, and the open, bloody sores on his knuckles were pressed to Fiddleford’s mouth before Stanford laughed and stooped in to press another hard kiss to his lips.

This time, the kiss ( _coffee, cinnamon, promises)_ was tainted with the metallic acid of blood and pus, and Fiddleford knew that there’d always be a hint of that corrupting something that had used to be so, so sweet.

He got into bed again with his partner, Stanford wrapping strong arms around his chest, and Fiddleford stared into the darkness and trembled as Stanford snuffled in his ear, mumbling incoherent phrases as he slept. Fiddleford didn’t sleep; he couldn’t. He watched the spot on the wall where he knew that he’d been pinned by… _something_ (it had been Stanford), and he thought about doubts and fear but mostly about love.

In the morning, he startled when Stanford got up before him – which was unusual, because lately he slept in longer from hard days working on the portal and even longer discussions with his “Muse.” Fiddleford laid completely still as he felt Stanford regard him, obviously also a bit shocked that he was the first one up, and Fiddleford clamped his sweating hands closed beneath the covers as he felt that gaze travel up his back. Eventually, Stanford stood and shuffled away, and Fiddleford watched the light of the rising sun send shadows flitting up the spot on the wall he’d watched all night until he knew if he didn’t get up soon Stanford would worry.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and undercooked pancakes. Stanford was huffing in frustration at the stove, still bare-chested, his hair mussed and sleep-tussled, and he looked better rested than he had in a long time. Fiddleford held back his flinch when Stanford heard his quiet footsteps and turned to greet him with a dopey smile and a cheerful, “Good morning!” Fiddleford studied his partner for a moment, taking in the tapping of his fingers (freshly bandaged, he saw) on the counter-top, the nervous tension coiled in his body, but mostly he studied his eyes; a light chocolate brown, dilated normally, sparked with early-morning cheerfulness and a hint of concern as Fiddleford stood there quietly.

After a pregnant pause, Fiddleford mentally slapped himself and mumbled a “Good mornin’” back. His eyes fell from their intense study of his partner’s eyes, but not before lingering on the splash of yellowing bruises showing the expanse of Stanford’s ribcage, or the crisp white gauze expertly tied around his knuckles. Stanford’s expression wavered for a moment, then settled on hidden concern as Fiddleford slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs (farthest from the stove and the bubbling pancakes), not bothering to give his partner a good-morning kiss or even a waist-wrapped hug like they were accustomed to. His expression flashed with more alarm when Fiddleford reached out and grabbed his mug, slurping back the steaming coffee waiting there without adding any sugar or cream first, then not even complaining about the horrible bitterness that was Stanford’s black caffeine intake, as he usually did.

“You ok, Fidds?” Stanford asked, sliding a plate of pancakes over to him. The man startled a bit, like he’d been lost in thought, then hummed disinterestedly.

“I’m fine, Darlin,’ just a bit tired is all. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He drizzled a bit of syrup on his pancakes and shot a reassuring smile at Stanford, one that didn’t quite reach his red-rimmed eyes (and there was something swimming in their depths that looked almost haunted). Fiddleford’s gaze drifted again, his smile freezing at the sight of Stanford’s chest.

Feeling a blush dust his cheeks, Stanford hurriedly pulled on a left-over shirt laying crumpled in one of the chairs, slipping it on and buttoning up the front, thinking maybe THAT was the reason for Fiddleford’s behaviour. Stanford wasn’t always the most observant, but he wasn’t a fool; he’d seen the way Fiddleford carefully tracked his injuries, the way his mouth tugged every time he caught sight of new bandages, the way he bit his lip before turning his head and not speaking a word about it.

It bothered Fiddleford, plain and simple, but Stanford wished it didn’t because there was nothing to be concerned about! Bill was simply a bit clumsy in his body – after all, he was an ancient being from another realm that didn’t have possession of a physical body very often, so _of course_ it was sometimes hard for him to control Stanford’s body or remember the limits this form could take. And he was always so apologetic in the Mind-Scape, expressing his regret over accidently hurting Stanford, and oftentimes Ford would even wake up to find clumsy stitches or ice-packs awaiting him from where Bill had tried to make up for the damage. (So how could Stanford hold it against him? It was an accident that he’d tripped down the stairs and almost broken his ribs; it was a mistake that Bill had burned his fingers once, trying to fuse together some metal; it was some freak-accident that caused the odd cuts all over his arms and shoulders, because Bill would _never_ intentionally hurt him, would he?).

Fiddleford stared at his plate and cut a piece of pancake before shoving it in his mouth, letting the disgustingly sweet flavour of the syrup and batter work away the taste of disease lingering on his lips. He knew he needed to snap out of it, but last night’s anxiety was whimpering beneath his skin and all he wanted to do was curl up and not think about anything – especially not the worried looks his partner was shooting him over his own plate of pancakes. Fiddleford swallowed again, the sickly undercooked chunk of pancake taking its time down his throat, and he took in a deep breath before standing, picking up his mostly-empty plate, and dumping it in the sink to wash later when he had the energy. Walking back over, he pressed a quick kiss to Stanford’s cheek, feeling the worried tension in his partner’s drawn forehead evaporate, but avoiding those eyes because he knew if he did all he’d remember was crushing pressure and the inability to breathe (in a bad way, not the “I’m-so-in-love-I-can’t-believe-it” way) instead of the gentle warmth and cautious passion he was used to.

Then he slipped away before Stanford’s concern could return, and he stared at the wall in their bedroom as he got dressed, and bereted himself for not saying anything, for taking the conversation in the night with Not-Stanford to heart, for the fact that he was going to exit the bedroom and smile at his partner and convince him he was ok when they both clearly had SOMETHING off about them.

Fiddleford was ashamed, he realized, but he wasn’t too sure why, so he did something he’d never really done before; he ignored the truth hovering just out of reach, begging him to reach out and take it, and he pushed the whole thing out of his head. He ignored the colour yellow and the restless dreams and the small instances of looking up from brushing his teeth and seeing the cat-slits of his partner standing behind him in the mirror before flashing back to normal, and Fiddleford told himself firmly that he was just seeing things, that he’d had too much coffee (that he only took black now, despite how it made his lip curl and Stanford subtly peek at his shaking hands) and too little sleep. He concentrated on fusing metal beams, and tending the little flower-pot in their kitchen, and savouring the joy in Stanford’s eyes at the progress of their work and the way his lips crushed his in happiness as their project became ready for test-trials, and he leaned back into that force because it was ok like this, lit up in the blue lights from the machine and with nothing pinning him down ( _he could pull back if he wanted to, and there wouldn’t be a wall trapping him in something he didn’t want_ ).

And just when it looked like it couldn’t get worse, it did.

Fiddleford wasn’t sure what happened (foolish; he hadn’t been fully behind the safety line, and wasn’t that ironic, because usually it was HIM criticizing Stanford for improper lab work). One moment he’d been standing next to Stanford, feeling a tinge of excitement for the first time in weeks as he stared at the humming light of the portal, those doubts that whispered louder and louder each day hushed by the thrum of his heart and the pride that beamed in Stanford’s face. Then it wasn’t the test-dummy floating through the air; it was _him_ , and he could have marvelled at the feeling of no gravity (it was peaceful, and maybe he should have been an astronaut instead of an engineer, he thought) except that the gaping hole of the unverified portal was looming before him and Fiddleford didn’t want to be the first to see where it led.

The rope snagged his foot, setting the skin beneath his pants on fire as it tore and rubbed against the flesh, and he could distantly hear Stanford yelling something, but then his face was entering the portal, a hole that was supposed to be punched between dimensions, and the wavelengths around it felt cool against his cheek as he broke through, eyes still widen out of fear and –

He could not describe what he saw. It was everything and nothing, but not comforting in the way he and Stanford would talk; it was like all the universe was being poured into his skull than ripped back out. There were clouds of black fog that swirled as if alive, fangs that seemed to burst from them with no apparent source, glimpses at monstrosities Fiddleford forgot as soon as he saw them, but mostly there were eyes, _oh god_ , there were eyes _everywhere_. Ruby-red eyes, candy-corn orange eyes, mossy-green and flaming purple and sets that flashed multicolour or held no colour at all, but above all else, there was _yellow_. Just one. WATCHING. Always watching. _It had always been watching and it always would be_. And reflected in it Fiddleford saw his own eyes mirrored, blown into cat-slits and crawling with veins that clawed at the storm-blue irises like the nails of a maddened psychopath, and above it all was a high-pitched laughing that sounded strangely familiar even if he was positive he’d never met a person with such a laugh before, and Fiddleford wanted to scream _but the whole universe was staring at him_ –

Stanford was talking above him. “… is it? Is it working? What did you see?!” His voice was scared and hopeful and curious all at the same time. Fiddleford heaved in a breath, like he’d never tasted air before, his back trembling against the solid surface of the basement floor, and he stared straight up, not actually seeing anything, but whining silently in the back of his throat as he physically felt his eyes blow up until it felt like his pupils had dominated his face. He grimaced as unintelligible words spilled from his throat, feeling like glass and stinging nettles and crushing pressure as they tumbled over his lips.

“Fiddleford..?” Stanford asked, and this time he sounded more hesitantly fearful than curious.

It was like someone had possessed him as his body swayed up on its own accord, his voice unnervingly steady as he recited, “ _When Gravity Falls and earth become sky, fear the beast with just one eye_.” One of his own eyes twitched at the word “eye” and his muscles locked up at that animalistic fear shimmering in him, plasma in his blood-stream, the things on the other side of the portal injected into his skin corrupting him, _oh god, they’d always be there now, even if he tore off his skin, the darkness and eyes would still be there_.

“Fiddleford, get a hold of yourself, you’re not making any sense!” A hand lightly brushed Fiddleford’s shoulder.

It felt like burning iron, and Fiddleford jerked away, his head swivelling to glare at Stanford and his own hand coming up to cradle his touched shoulder like he was falling apart ( _and maybe he was_ ). His belly was ignited in helplessness, in anxiety, in bubbling anger that had suppressed itself with all the rest of his instinctual fears, the ones he’d ignored for far too long ( _and now it was too late, too late, he should have listened to himself_ ). Some distant part of him could see the hurt flash through Stanford’s eyes as his partner recoiled from him, the way Fiddleford had briefly flinched and looked disgusted with the six-fingered hand touching him, and Fiddleford wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like THAT, but he _couldn’t_.

“This machine is dangerous. You’ll bring about the end of the world with this!” His voice was rising, becoming more and more frantic, and it hurt to hear his accent slipping away with his hysteria. “Destroy it before it destroys us all!”

“I can’t _destroy_ this, it’s my life’s work!” And there it was; the expression on Stanford’s face awash with hurt that Fiddleford could suggest such a thing, that he’d even _consider_ taking down all their hard work.

Fiddleford felt his entire spine bend as he bowed forward in front of Stanford, squeezing his eyes closed and thinking hard. He thought of college nights, six sleep-warmed fingers, black coffee, blue flowers and the smell of pine on the breeze, about the feeling of someone crushing into his ribcage and pressing his thighs apart and bruising his jaw with their grip and the future he thought he might have seen, filled with blood, burning, and eyes like slits. But he didn’t voice any of that.

“I fear we’ve unleashed a grave danger on the world,” he said instead, and in it was the heavy tone of defeat, of giving up, of finally reaching his breaking point. “…one I’d just as soon forget.”

 _He couldn’t do this_. “I quit.”

Fiddleford could hear Stanford yelling behind him as he strode away, something no doubt hurtful and only said in heat-of-the-moment, so he didn’t bother to listen. He just kept walking, feeling his chest thump with the pain of leaving and the fear of staying, the heavy numbness of finally breaking down settling in his bones and aching something fierce. One step up the stairs whispered that he’d helped bring about destruction, that he had been crazy not to listen to his doubts, that Stanford was a fool that had used him and hurt him more than he’d ever loved him. Then the next step made the rope-burn on his leg flare, and he could hear the concern in Stanford’s voice, the gentle touches of sleepy mornings as he fried eggs, the happiness of six-fingered knuckles wrapped perfectly around his hand as they both sleep safely side-by-side, and he loved Stanford, he loved him so much he felt like weeping for leaving him in the aftermath of whatever nightmare they’d created together, _but he couldn’t do this_.

Fiddleford’s hands were steady as he threw his clothes into an old bag, grabbing anything that vaguely looked like it belonged to him while avoiding staring at the side of the bedroom wall. It was odd, he thought, as he stuffed some half-finished invention on top of rumpled shirts and socks, that his hands – which hadn’t stopped vibrating for weeks – were now eerily stable. It was like a part of him had been preparing for this moment, half-way there, and he’d been running off adrenaline that had expired now that the deadline was here.

He paused when he came upon a slender machine, the sides hanging off revealing wires and its exposed mechanical insides. It was something he’d absentmindedly began to build after the Not-Ford incident; something he’d refused to think too deeply on, simply letting his hands stitch it together into this half-done thing shaped like a gun (despite Fiddleford’s non-violent tendencies) and decked with a light-bulb Stanford himself had made. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully wrapping it in one of his shirts (or maybe it was Stanford’s; he didn’t really care either way at the moment) and stored it safely in his bag.

It felt like a dream ( _a nightmare_ ) as he walked through the shack he’d spent months in, some of the happiest months of his whole life, and he could have wondered how things had gotten to this but he knew so he shut down his whole brain and didn’t think at all.

He passed through the kitchen (although he wasn’t too sure why) and didn’t look at the stack of breakfast dishes waiting to be washed by him and Stanford (it was what they did; Fiddleford washed and Ford dried, and they’d talk or just stand in companionable silence, but now those dishes would stay there until they grew mold because Stanford always forgot about things like hygiene and housework without Fiddleford there to remind him). The anger rose up then, consuming the numbness and fright, because Stanford wasn’t _there_ , wasn’t trying to stop Fiddleford from leaving like one of those old romantic movies his sisters used to make him watch (and he’d secretly adored them) and why didn’t he _care_ as much as Fiddleford did? Why wasn’t he here to see Fiddleford frozen in the middle of THEIR kitchen, shaking from fear and anger and love, and to take him in his arms and apologize over and over, to try and save what they had shared? _Whywhywhy?_

Fiddleford stayed there for a few minutes ( _wishful thinking_ ) but nobody appeared. Nobody came up from the basement. Nobody frantically searched the house calling his name, begging him to be there, asking for forgiveness and pleading with him to stay. And when his legs finally moved again both of them burned, so that Fiddleford couldn’t even remember which one had the rope-burn and which one was perfectly fine.

As he slammed the door behind him with all the force coiled in his usually-peaceful body, he heard the windowsill shudder and the tell-tale sound of a terracotta pot with little blue flowers ( _Forget-me-nots_ ) shattering on the floor of thei- no, _Stanford’s_ kitchen.

It didn’t matter anyways; it would have died anyways, since Stanford would never remember to water it.

Fiddleford couldn’t sleep after all that. Sometimes he stayed up late, scrubbing his skin until it was bright pink and stinking of soap, and yet he was unable to stop itching at the squirming feeling beneath his skin. Sometimes he wandered around the little house he’d rented on the other side of town, fidgeting under his notes and possessions scattered throughout, knowing that it would never feel like home no matter how lived-in the place looked. He only went out once, and while in town he bought a little pot and a little seedling ( _why though?_ ), and set it to the side and imagined it growing, thought that maybe he could regrow too ( _but this plant wasn’t re-growing; it was a different plant, after all, but he ignored that, and imagined that it just needed some time to heal and bloom again_ ).

Mostly, however, he worked on the gun, with steady hands and no regard to the increasing dirtiness of the house and himself (wasn’t that ironic, hah?). And all the while he waited. Waited for a familiar face to show up on his doorstep ( _and in his flitting dreams they did, but with cat-slit eyes and fangs that glinted as they laughed_ ) but nobody came except for the concerned landlady who asked about rent and eyed his tired slouch and twitchy eyes, like she was going to ask him if he was alright, but she didn’t and he was glad because he felt so lost and he didn’t know how he could respond to such an innocent question of “ _are you ok?_ ” without either laughing hysterically or sobbing pitifully.

It was a sunny day when he finished the memory-gun – probably one of his finest works, really, but he didn’t feel like celebrating. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten (judging by the fact that he couldn’t even feel his stomach any longer, it had been awhile) or the last time he’d slept (that was a lie; he knew that he’d slept for exactly twenty-one minutes two days ago, before being jolted awake by building paranoia, and he’d downed yet another pot of bitter coffee to make up for the fact he hadn’t had a full eight hours sleep in more than a week), but none of that mattered. All that mattered was the gun gripped in his hand, sleek and perfect and powerful.

He gripped it. Then set it down. Then picked it up again, turning it over and over, feeling his hands start to shake again, then his shoulders, before he set the gun down, bowed his head, and wept into his hands. He didn’t want this – but he didn’t NOT want this either. Fiddleford was so confused, so fearful, so _tired_. He couldn’t handle the twisting thoughts in his head, the ones chasing their tails in endless loops; he couldn’t make up his mind on anything, couldn’t even form a single opinion, because there was always another voice in his mind arguing a different point, and he was to the point of collapsing under the weight of the anxiety that created. That, and the bubbling edge of hysteria and paranoia was getting worse and worse, blurring his accent the few times he’d spoken aloud to himself.

When Fiddleford finally stopped the hysterical sobbing ripping out of his chest, he didn’t move for a few minutes. He let his breathing even out into sniffles and his lungs catch up with the rest of his body, then forced himself to sit up. Hands shaking? Check. The tight pressure of not getting enough oxygen? Double check. The horrible slew of thoughts, of guilt, regret, anger, all those stupid feelings, the heartbreak and betrayal, the tendrils of darkness latching onto him, _eyes eyes eyes_ ALWAYS WATCHING, six-fingered hands choking him in nightmares and whispering voices under his skin from a place that wasn’t his own, and a sprout poking out of dirt and him realizing he didn’t even know what type of flowers it would grow ( _would it be better or worse if they were blue?_ ). Check, check, check; still all there, torturing him now and torturing him forever more.

Fiddleford stood. He was set on what to do now, he was pretty sure. Tousled, unwashed hair was swept out of his blue eyes circled in sleep-deprived rings, his askew tie fixed and his jacket straightened into a semblance of sane appearance. Then he switched on the machine to record him, and said, without a waver in his voice, “My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and I wish to unsee what I have seen.”

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket wasn’t one to forget things; or, at the least, he had always seen the truth of such things. The truth of things this time, however, was that of a man in over his head, desperate enough to contact a taboo he’d assigned himself ten years before, and how that man had driven Fiddleford to caring so deeply that now he could not bear to remember. He didn’t know that when that man had finally emerged from the basement, he’d carefully swept up the terracotta shards and replanted the little blue flowers with shaking hands. He wouldn’t know that the man would hang onto a brown trench-coat Fiddleford had given him for Christmas in their third year throughout a thirty year span, through hell or high water, and each time he thought of home he’d clutch the few scraps of old photographs stitched into the inside pocket of his left breast ( _a faded dog-eared photograph of two sun-burned boys on top of a boat; an old-fashioned black-and-white copy of his parents side-by-side; a stiff scrap of a brown-haired boy with blue eyes playing catch by the woods; and the most loved, that of a thrice-folded, scruffy, sun-faded and wind-battered photo of a man with smiling blue eyes, kind lines around his mouth, and nimble fingers plucking a banjo lazily as he dreamily peered off, unaware of the camera snapping his place in time_ ).

Fiddleford said some more things after that, explaining what he’d done, what he feared (and all the while never mentioning another’s name). “For the past year, I have been working as an assistant for a visiting researcher.” ( _He’d been more than that, both of them_ ). “He has been cataloguing his findings about Gravity Falls in a series of journals.” ( _Fiddleford wouldn’t mention the numerous times he’d peered over Stanford’s shoulder and pointed out something else for him to add, the pen his partner held moving fluidly over the pages he’d bound himself_ ). “I helped him build a machine which he believed had the potential to benefit all mankind, but something went wrong.” ( _Oh, so terribly wrong_ ). “I decided to quit the project.” ( _Was that an understatement? He wasn’t sure_ ). “But I lie awake at night, haunted by the thoughts of what I’ve done.” ( _But that wasn’t all that kept him up; it was the invisible forms of old touches, old warmth, past love still hovering like the eyes watching his every move_ ).

“I believe I have invented a machine that can permanently erase these memories from my mind.” His accent was there, but layered beneath his emotions and the grip he held on the memory-gun as he held it up to his own head. And while he’d known that the accent faded with articulate fear and emotion, he wouldn’t know until later that the accent came out as thick as Stanford’s gooey pancakes in the back of his throat when insanity gripped his mind and thrust out all his control ( _what was worse; that the accent that had haunted his youth now haunted his future, or the idea that it could have faded and broken one last piece of Fiddleford McGucket?_ ). But then, he wouldn’t know a lot after crossed-out eyes and broken bones and a wilted young plant dried out from lack of water on his side-table ( _flaking leaves, like flaking memories_ ), which all would start now. The beginning of the end, perhaps, if Fiddleford had cared to think anymore ( _but when he thought all he got was tears in the corners of his eyes, so why think, why remember, why why why?_ ).

“Test Subject One: Fiddleford” His hands shook, but it was more out of habit at this point.

His fingers, once nimble on an instrument laying abandoned next to his unfamiliar bed, spun a last few dials on the gun. ( _He’d never been one to forget_ ).

Aim… ( _He’d always seen the truth and embraced it_ ).

Fire. ( _This time, he couldn’t do it_ ).

Forget. ( _Maybe thirty years later he’d regret what he’d done, but for now, he didn’t have to remember blue flowers or college nights or the way he’d ran on and on too far for someone else, and that was almost as good as old, coffee-bitter memories_ ).

**Author's Note:**

> You know what I noticed when I was re-watching clips of Fiddleford erasing his own memories? A little potted plant behind him. Which is not something I noticed until I had already written all the scenes beforehand, so I had to go back and add the part of Fidds buying his own little plant to, idk, emphasis the angst? Who knows, my mind is a mysterious, messed-up place.


End file.
